


Jason & Rachel: Creative Companion

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [39]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Creative Companions, F/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 13:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8144939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: Jason (Jeremy Renner) is a former covert operative trying to learn how to live a normal life, with the help of his handler Phil. They decide to get him a companion who produces creative energy, as Jason does, and settle on a young woman named Rachel (Rachel Weisz), who has a few quirky qualities, such as writing in code and not speaking. An original story with strong shades of Bourne Legacy and Avengers. Just the beginning.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.   
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories.

 

Phil paused at the gate, taking in the sweep of booths and tents before him, the bustling chaos of a busy fair. His gaze slid down one row of vendors on the main strip and up the other side, and he sighed.

“Slave markets are not nice places,” Jason commented with a shrug, perusing the catalog on his tablet.

“I know. It’s fine.” Jason had never had a nice life, up until the last few months; so other people having the same seemed par for the course to him. Phil, on the other hand, had to resist the urge to take everyone home with him. He concealed the softness expertly, of course; but Jason saw his expression and smirked a little bit. To him, today was going to be a good day, because they _were_ going to take somebody home with them, and it was going to be a _good_ home.

“Which direction?” Phil asked, uninterested in even using the catalog’s map.

“It looks like most of the Creatives are over here,” Jason responded. ‘Over here’ was useless, but he started walking and Phil strode alongside him, trying to be aware of his surroundings without really looking at the merchandise closely.

Companions were right by the entrance, of course, to lure people in; the hardcore, exotic sex slaves were in a corner away from the main drag, but the companions were beautiful and alluring while still being appropriate for all audiences. Jason and Phil received their share of (unwanted) attention from them, Phil for his sharp suit and Jason for his t-shirt and jeans that were just a _little_ too tight to be casual. Both ignored the sales pitches.

Jason hadn’t come from a slave market, but he’d been through them before and knew how they worked. He would’ve been in one of the restricted zones, for the sale of dangerous slaves—if they could be tamed and trusted, their skills would make them excellent bodyguards. If not, they might be turned loose on each other for sport, or someone kinky and daring might try to make them into a risky pet.

Phil figured Jason would’ve gone the sport route, and probably made a lot of money for his master. He’d been designed to be dangerous, molded, altered, trained, beaten like a blacksmith beat a sword into a weapon of ruthless elegance. But once he was no longer useful, his handlers found it difficult to beat their sword into a plowshare, to neutralize the threat he presented without simply killing him.

Somehow Nick had gotten a hold of him, though, saved him from that fate, and passed him on to Phil, partly an assignment, partly a personal challenge. Phil had rehabbed a few of their _own_ agents who had gone rogue, but Jason was a whole other can of peas. He was a good person, though, fundamentally—that must’ve been what Nick had seen, somehow. He didn’t _like_ hurting people, didn’t _want_ to do it, could _stop_ himself from doing it if the situation warranted it. So all Phil had to do was encourage that impulse and give him something else to do instead, in an environment where he felt safe. That ‘all’ was not really a minor thing, though, of course.

“All these Creatives are so young,” Jason complained, perusing the list even as he navigated them through the market. They were in the domestic laborers section now—pleasant, hard-working individuals for house and grounds maintenance. “They’re all twenty-one, twenty-two—eighteen,” he added with displeasure. Most people would pay good money for a young, energetic, attractive Creative who could double as a general companion, including the sex part.

“Not to your taste?” Phil asked dryly.

“I don’t want—“ Jason stopped himself. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “A puppy is a lot more work, is all.”

“You’re looking for more of a contemporary,” Phil rephrased.

“Yes.”

Jason was thirty-six; he’d been aged out of his mysterious program, making way for younger, better models. The dangerous things they did were young peoples’ tasks, or so his handlers had presumably felt. He was depressed, naturally, feeling rejected and meaningless, and Phil had begun by trying to show him some of things he’d missed with his devotion to the program—art and music, nature and history, good food, action movies. His life had kind of _been_ an action movie, so that hadn’t been so impressive.

Then one day Phil brought him some paper and crayons, a lark that the therapist he was consulting had suggested. At first Jason had no idea what to do with them; then, he picked up a crayon and slowly started drawing. Which was great, that was the point; lots of people drew. But not everyone gave off enough creative energy that the C-meter on Phil’s tablet lit up, pinging him with alert messages. Jason had the makers; it was unlikely his handlers hadn’t noticed, but they’d had even more valuable things for him to do and they didn’t exactly nurture the creativity.

The Creatives section of the market was supposed to look artistic and happy; and indeed Creatives tended to have better lives than most slaves, since conventional wisdom held that they needed to feel safe and well-treated to produce their creative output.

As the two of them strolled down the aisles they saw young men and women drawing, painting, sculpting, dancing, playing music. They had copious statistics available for the more business-minded potential owners, the ones who ran industrial complexes for creative energy and wanted high producers who nonetheless fit well into a community. The more eccentric Creatives—the anti-social, high-strung types who made sculptures from trash or invented unpalatable-sounding new foods—often went to smaller boutique colonies.

The Creatives on display were a mix of the two types, with proportionally more being mainstream. If he’d been nurtured since his youth, Jason probably would’ve been a more traditional Creative, with a pleasant personality and talent in things like music, dance, and acting. Nothing wrong with that. Although the industrial places tended to burn out Creatives after a few years, and then they reappeared on the market as older, more eccentric types, or were quietly passed along to smaller, less important corporate holdings.

“Maybe someone along here,” Phil suggested, as they mingled with the boutique shoppers. A woman in her late twenties was covering a sheet of synthetic skin in intricate tattoos—a good investment for a boutique with a consumer business, as long as she was willing to do the tattoos the customers wanted. “You could use some tats.”

“We all could,” Jason agreed dryly. “You.”

“Mary Beth, Cece,” Phil listed, evoking his matronly housekeeper and her athletic but feminine young assistant. It was amusing to imagine them with the skull tattoo the woman was currently working on.

Another woman—Jason was always drawn to the women—was sculpting animals out of damp horse manure. A nearby placard assured potential buyers that the manure was sterilized before use and indeed, Phil didn’t notice as much of a smell as he’d expected. “We’ve been thinking about getting horses,” Jason reminded him in a deadpan.

At the next stall a woman displayed the art she made from glass bottles that had been softened by heat and flattened. “We need to drink more beer,” Phil decided, since those bottles were her primary raw material. They kept moving.

Creativity was creativity, after all, and Phil was in no position to criticize how someone else expressed themselves. On the other hand, Jason needed to be comfortable with the person, and likely that included finding her particular form of art interesting. Which was just not happening so far.

He’d started out with drawing, although he wasn’t especially _talented_ at it—creative energy actually didn’t have much to do with the quality of the final product, only with the churning, lightning bolt imagination that conceived of something and tried to produce it. You did have to have some kind of physical output, though, you couldn’t just _think_ about being creative.

Phil had encouraged Jason to experiment with other simple, easy forms of creative expression, and he enjoyed doing most of them, which was another good sign. They discovered that he was actually quite talented at music—playing various instruments, singing, and even writing new music, though instrumentals only so far because words weren’t his strong suit.

They were still in the city at that point. Phil liked the city—the energy, the connectedness, the resources, the opportunities for people-watching. But he soon realized Jason couldn’t fully relax there, for the same reasons—even safe inside the apartment they shared he was always slightly on alert, always aware of the other people around them. Phil knew then that they had to go to the country place.

It could certainly benefit from an infusion of creative energy itself. It had been in Phil’s family for a long time, growing larger and grander when family fortunes rose, then seeing various rooms shuttered as the family took on a more middle-class role. No one had been successful in getting rid of it, however, perhaps because it was in the middle of nowhere, and there were a couple of generations who hung on to it with fierce pride, including Phil’s parents.

Every summer they went there for weeks, escaping the broiling congestion of the city. Naturally Phil had always found it boring at first, but then he settled in and enjoyed himself, playing in the woods, exploring the closed wings, reading in the paper-scented library with its _real_ books. He had no intention of selling it himself and maintained a small staff there, even if he could no longer visit as often.

But creative energy was a funny thing. Everyone knew it was valuable, that it could _do_ things. It could even be quantified and the people who generated it copiously identified through their DNA. But exactly how it worked, and what it was going to do in a given situation, were topics of intense study. The country place had five usable bedrooms when Jason had first arrived, one for each of the staff and Phil; Jason had had to sleep on a cot in the library, one of the few other rooms Phil insisted be scrupulously maintained along with the kitchen a couple of small common areas. Not that the rest was decrepit, but there were cracks and drafts, leaks and sags, dust and discoloration. It was too much for just four people to keep up, especially when two were also charged with taming some small part of the grounds, and not affordable to hire more.

Now, after Jason had lived there for just a few months, there were a number of rooms in good condition, which needed only minimal attention from the staff. It was like the house was alive and healing itself, slowly but surely, as it absorbed the creative energy Jason gave off while he drew, sang, danced, and pursued other artistic hobbies. The indoor pool and atrium became usable again. The music room, of course—Phil had sprung to transform one room into a recording studio so Jason’s musical efforts could be documented. Jason’s bedroom, naturally, and the art studio where all the crafting supplies were kept—this was nothing Phil was doing, or the staff; most of the improvements were solely due to the energy Jason produced.

The little theatre would be next, Phil thought, its moth-eaten curtains and squeaky floorboards already looking and sounding better. Jason was dabbling in acting now, recording himself doing all the roles in short plays and then laboring over his computer to edit the footage together, until it looked like the cast was made of his clones.

The grounds had improved as well—the cracks in the tennis court disappeared, the basketball hoop straightened up, the lawn was less ragged, the vegetable garden more robust. And that wasn’t all: Phil’s staff claimed they felt healthier and more energetic. Now maybe that was just psychological, because the house was being used again, and Jason was such a sweetheart under that rough exterior. Phil did not mention that since he’d taken on Jason, his own general well-being had increased, not to mention his investment portfolio.

To say that creative energy generated by Jason was somehow influencing abstract and large-scale economic forces to favor the stocks Phil bought was too far-fetched, in Phil’s opinion, but there was no denying the improvement _was_ happening, whatever the source, and Phil was happy to reinvest some of that windfall into Jason and the house, to make him even more comfortable and provide him with further creative outlets.

Cece had been the first to notice something was wrong. She was recently engaged to Pace, the groundskeeper’s assistant, so her mind was tuned towards thoughts of companionship, and she was a very intuitive young woman anyway. “He’s lonely,” she’d said, first to Mary Beth and Pace, and finally to Phil.

Which seemed plausible enough; Jason was not exactly a people person, and sometimes he seemed to feel that the five other people in the house were about six too many, but he’d been kept isolated from others during his many years in the program, both physically and emotionally, and now that was starting to thaw. So now they were here, at the slave market.

It was a tricky situation. Phil wasn’t especially enamored of the idea of owning slaves—technically Jason was one, his ownership transferred to Phil from Nick, but it was understood that this was a formality, a way of conferring legal protection on Jason. His former handlers would not have allowed him to be a free man, roaming around unsupervised; but as a slave, kept in bondage, confined in his travels, and with someone else responsible if he caused trouble, they felt better and left him alone. Maybe someday Phil would have to confront the issue of Jason wanting to travel or live independently, but for right now he was content to stay at the country place.

But getting someone else out there, a companion for Jason, was tricky. Finding romance was tricky for _anyone_ ; you couldn’t just pick someone up randomly and assume they’d be compatible. At least at the slave market you could set _some_ requirements, like being slightly older and a fellow Creative. Even if she and Jason didn’t exactly fall in love, maybe they could be friends and artistic collaborators. Although even with that, you might get someone with an unpleasant personality, and they would likely never be sold for as much as Phil would pay for them.

Still, the slave market seemed in some ways the best solution, the one they were most in control of. Thus, they were standing in the boutique Creative section, watching a woman rapidly draw caricatures of passersby as various animals. Jason had been transformed into a sleek fox with a disconcertingly prominent muzzle; Phil was a hare, tense and watchful (perhaps because he was accompanied by a fox). Drawing, at least, was a hobby Jason could understand; but further inquiry revealed this sort of thing was _all_ she drew, and she was being promoted as perfect for a boutique owner with a storefront in a highly touristed area. Phil suspected she would get terribly bored with only six people to transmogrify. They moved on.

“Here’s a Creative who’s thirty-two,” Jason noted, scrolling through the program on his tablet. “Her output is mostly writing. And look at that price!”

Phil looked, did a double-take, then took the tablet himself. “Yeah, she’s in the _bargain_ section,” he pointed out dismissively.

“So?”

He shouldn’t have to tell Jason what that meant. “There’s probably something wrong with her.”

“There’s something wrong with everyone, Phil,” Jason pointed out cheekily and the other man rolled his eyes.

“You know what I mean,” he insisted. “She’ll be difficult somehow—antisocial or violent.”

“Maybe she’s just sick,” Jason countered. “Maybe she just needs the right home, someone to look after her.” He’d lost the cheekiness now and become serious, too serious.

“We’ll go look at her,” Phil conceded quickly, “but don’t get your heart set on her. Really, don’t,” he added seriously.

The bargain section was in the other corner of the market, the least advantageous part, of course. Like any merchandise, you could sometimes get lucky and pick up exactly what you wanted for a low price; but the vast majority was cheap for a reason. Old, sick, unstable, violent—and not also appealing such that they could target specialty collectors. Or just random, run-of-the-mill slaves who weren’t good enough to inspire any particular promotion.

Here the shoppers were the owners of lower-end businesses, restaurants and factories and warehouses, who needed a large group of cheap, mostly competent laborers, if you didn’t set the ‘competent’ bar too high. Or maybe someone searching for a quick filler slave, or someone who really wanted a slave but couldn’t afford a decent one. And of course the avid bargain hunters, always looking for that diamond in the rough.

Phil thought it was probably the most depressing section of all, especially after seeing the relatively happy Creatives. Jason, though certainly not callous about it, had been trained to ignore distractions like sentiment when he had a goal to pursue. He consulted the map on his tablet and wove them expertly through the booths—which more often than not now contained locked cages—to the aisle he wanted.

“This must be her,” he noted finally.

“In the cage?” Phil pointed out, irritation at his surroundings finally starting to creep into his tone. “Come on. That means she’s trouble. You don’t want her.”

“ _I_ was trouble,” Jason murmured. Before Phil could respond to that they reached the cage and saw the woman sitting inside, under the shade of a canvas thrown over part of the roof. It was an unusually thoughtful gesture, Phil judged. The woman had long, dark curly hair and pale skin, but little more could be determined as she kept herself hunched over her tablet, scribbling away.

Jason crouched down outside the cage. “Hello,” he began. “What’s your name?” She glanced up at him briefly and Phil caught a glimpse of a delicate, elegant face before she went back to her labors, her hair shielding her like a curtain. “I’m Jason,” he persisted. “What’s your name?” This was ignored. Phil tried to glean what he could from her merchandise profile, which was impressive but sketchy.

“Don’t stick your hands through the bars,” he warned, since Jason looked about to do just that.

A middle-aged man in a denim work shirt caught Phil’s eye and maneuvered over. “Hey there,” he greeted. “Roger Bendis. You two interested in a Creative?”

“You’re her owner?” Phil confirmed. “Does she not talk?”

“Well I guess she _can_ ,” Bendis shrugged cheerfully. “She’s perfectly healthy. But I’ve never heard her say anything.”

“Ah,” Phil noted with understanding. “Psychological issues.”

“She’s a bit of an odd duck,” Bendis agreed, trying to spin it positively somehow. “You guys from a boutique?”

“Private household,” Phil corrected, though he didn’t intend to stay much longer. “Jason, quit pestering her,” he chided, preparatory to leaving. He did not need ‘odd ducks,’ and neither did Jason.

“Now you see, I think that might be perfect for her,” Bendis claimed. “I’m from—“

“What’s her name?” Jason called over, sitting down in front of the cage with great determination.

“Rachel,” Bendis told him. Immediately Jason began cooing her name at her. “I own Winstar Gardens,” he went on to Phil, who really wasn’t interested. “It’s a free-range, open-input energy collective. The Creatives can wander all over the grounds, make use of a variety of inputs and output materials. This makes for a very high-quality product.”

Phil had a glancing familiarity with the trendy buzzwords of the creative energy business, and Bendis was hitting all of them. There was a pleasing authenticity about him, though. “But you’re selling her,” Phil pointed out frankly. “Why?”

“She doesn’t really fit in with the community,” Bendis admitted regretfully. “Kinda antisocial.”

“Mm-hmm,” Phil nodded. “Jason, come on—“

“I think she just needs more personal attention,” Bendis went on, as though Phil had displayed further curiosity. “She’s a good gal, a strong producer, very steady too, which is rare.”

Phil had seen the stats. He wouldn’t have gone all the way to ‘rare,’ but it was less usual. Since Jason wasn’t inclined to leave—the woman took another quick peek at him, which would probably motivate him to stay for a couple more minutes—Phil took up the challenge. “So she doesn’t talk and she’s antisocial,” he repeated. “Violent?”

“There have been a couple of incidents with some of the others,” Bendis admitted casually. One more strike against her, as far as Phil was concerned. “But honestly I think they kinda picked on her. I thought maybe letting her have her own room would help, but she just became more withdrawn.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Phil remarked matter-of-factly, “you’re not the best salesman.”

Bendis did not take offense. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been here,” he revealed. “I’ve been trying to find a good home for her for a few months now. She’s been with me about five years, and before that she spent nearly ten years at some industrial place. Think they shoulda sold her sooner,” he judged. Clearly he didn’t have a high opinion of her former owners. “I’ve turned down a couple of offers for her, actually,” he claimed. “They didn’t seem like the right people for her.”

Phil was pretty good at reading people and maintained a decidedly skeptical outlook on life; but he felt this Bendis fellow was more or less genuine, within the context of being a businessman. He really seemed to care for the woman—witness the sunshade.

“Her output’s writing?” Phil recalled.

“Oh yeah, she is always working on her tablet,” Bendis assured him. He held up his own electronic device. “But take a look at it.” He opened a file, filling the screen with neat rows of handwritten symbols. Phil could make nothing of it.

“What language is that?” he wanted to know.

“Dunno,” Bendis shrugged philosophically. “That’s what she produces. Gigabytes of it. Computer can’t translate it. But it must be real.” Nonsense scribbling would not produce creative energy.

And now Phil was intrigued. “What’s her input?”

“Music, mostly,” Bendis told him. “She loves music, all kinds.”

“Did you say she likes music?” Jason asked eagerly. He started to sing, quietly, an old familiar song with a good rhythm, and the woman slowly looked up at him.

Phil was not certain gaining her further attention was wise. “Does she read at all?” he asked, keeping an eye on Jason and the woman.

“Some,” Bendis replied. He didn’t seem alarmed when she scooted closer to where Jason was parked outside the cage. “She seems to like old-fashioned paper books,” he added, as though this were yet another of her quirks. “But who can afford to keep a lot of those around, right?” Phil was certain Jason heard this and felt smug about it.

“Jason, don’t touch,” he ordered firmly, as the woman was now just on the other side of the bars from him, watching him sing avidly. “She doesn’t bite, does she?” he asked Bendis.

“Not too much,” he replied jovially. “Does yours?”

“Not too much,” Phil muttered.

“She also does some creative stuff with music,” Bendis went on. “Mashing songs together and such. Oh, and there’s a couple of shows she likes. She makes music videos by splicing clips together and putting a song over them.” Phil raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, she spends hours tinkering with ‘em. They seem skillful,” Bendis judged faintly. “She likes those teen vampire shows or whatever, I don’t really get it myself.”

Rachel had sat down with her back to Jason and was writing again; but when he dared to stop singing, she turned and gave him a sharp look, and he started up again with a grin. He shot a glance to Phil, who was afraid this was getting serious.

Phil motioned Bendis to come a few steps away. “What about intimate activities?” he asked discreetly. “What’s her history?”

The other man nodded in understanding. “Hard to imagine she hasn’t had sex at some point, but I never heard anything about it,” he explained. He brought up her medical history on the tablet and showed it to Phil. “She has an implant, had it when she came to me. No pregnancies, no diseases or injuries. You thinking of breeding her?”

Phil glanced back at Jason to check on the two of them. “It’s not a priority,” he replied. Pregnancy-preventing implants could be removed, though not easily, and she was a little old to start having kids. But he supposed that depended on what she and Jason wanted.

And with that Phil realized he had pulled a complete one-eighty from his starting position.

Bendis did, too. “So, standard package, you get all the creative works she’s done for me, plus everything she came in with,” he listed. “Exclusive rights. You get her medical documentation, personal history, and basically all the possessions she’s got on her at the moment. I keep her packed and ready to go,” he added, “so she’s got a change of clothes in her bag there and that tablet.” Phil could see the device was an older model and thus no great loss. “For an additional fee,” Bendis went on, “you could have a copy of the songs she’s put on her personal playlist. Favorites.”

This was the businessman coming through, Phil realized. “An additional fee? She’s antisocial, doesn’t talk, writes in a language no one can understand—what makes you think I’m really going to buy her?” Phil negotiated.

Bendis was not dissuaded. “I think your boy’s stuck on her,” he noted cheerfully. “This would be the total, taxes and everything.”

Phil took longer than necessary looking over the bill. Even with the additional fee for her favorite songs—which might be in Phil’s music library anyway—she still cost far less than he had been prepared to spend today. The phrase ‘you get what you pay for’ echoed through his mind. “Excuse me a second,” he told Bendis, then walked over to Jason and tapped his shoulder, gesturing for him to come away a few steps. Rachel turned around to watch them when the singing stopped.

“We’re getting her, right?” Jason whispered urgently, as though he feared someone else would swoop in on their prize.

“Do you want her?” Jason gave him a look that said this should be obvious. “Well, you can’t read what she’s written,” he pointed out. “And she’s not exactly a great conversationalist.”

“I think she’s nice,” Jason pressed stubbornly. “And she likes my singing. She can’t be _that_ expensive,” he added pragmatically.

“There’s other places we can look.” Phil wasn’t trying to be _too_ discouraging, he just didn’t want Jason to feel like he was settling. “We can go to other markets.” Jason crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay,” Phil conceded. The other man grinned suddenly, blindingly.

“Thanks, Phil!” he enthused.

Phil went back to Bendis. “Let me see the contract again.” Everything seemed to be in order, so without further hesitation he imprinted the agreement.

“Excellent!” Bendis smiled. “I can see your boy’s quite taken with her, and vice versa. Whereabouts do you two live?” he inquired as he transferred her records and Phil transferred the money.

“The country.”

“Oh, I think she’ll really like the country, she likes being outside,” Bendis judged.

“Rachel. Rachel, you’re going to come home with us,” Jason was trying to tell her. She frowned at him and went back to her writing. “She does _understand_ me, doesn’t she?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh sure,” Bendis promised. By way of demonstration he tapped on the bars of the cage. “Rachel,” he summoned. “Time to go. Pack up.” Dutifully she tucked her tablet into her bag and stood. “Do you have restraints with you?” he asked Phil.

The question took him aback slightly. “Restraints? No. Why? Does she _need_ restraints?”

“Well, if I open the cage, she’s liable to run for it,” Bendis explained. “She’s done it a couple times before.”

Phil turned a cold gaze on him. “You didn’t say she was a _runner_ ,” he accused.

“Oh, she’s not a _runner_ ,” Bendis insisted. “She never tried to get away from the property. But being at the market does crazy things to slaves’ minds. One time I thought I’d lost her and _she_ found _me_ when she was ready to go.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “Well, I don’t like restraints,” he decided. “We’ll take our chances.”

“Suit yourself,” Bendis shrugged, reaching for his keys. “Goodbye now, sweetie. You behave yourself.” He unlocked the door of the cage and swung it open, and Rachel took a tentative step out. Then suddenly she bolted, darting between the stalls with surprising speed. Jason set out after her instantly.

“Ah, I warned you,” Bendis said regretfully, shaking his head.

“He’ll catch her,” Phil said, utterly confident on that point. He was scrolling through the files that had been transferred to his ownership. “What’s all this?” he asked, skimming a file of celebrity photos.

“Oh, she uses them to illustrate her stories, or something,” Bendis explained. “Her collection started out at the industrial place and was transferred as a creative work, so I thought I better pass it on to you as the same. You have a good network connection out in the country, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Phil replied, mildly affronted. Where did he think they lived, out in the boondocks? Well, okay, maybe they did. But even the boondocks got good network reception these days.

“She just uses it a lot, is all,” Bendis told him. “Researching her stories, maybe. Say, I hope you won’t be too hard on her when she gets back,” he added. “I don’t think she meant anything personal by running. She’s a good gal.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” Phil pointed out dryly. “Well, adjustment issues are expected,” he added, seeing that Bendis really did want some assurance. “Jason was a handful at first, but he calmed down once he felt safe.”

Bendis seemed relieved by this comment. “Yeah, that’s all she needs, to feel safe. She’ll settle right in pretty soon. Oh, see, here they come. Gee, you were right about him catching her.”

Phil turned to see Jason returning, holding Rachel’s hand. He had to coax her a little, especially as they got closer to Phil, but she wasn’t really _resisting_. “Rachel wasn’t trying to run away,” Jason told him. “She just panicked, because she was out of the cage.”

“She told you that, huh?” Phil asked him dryly.

“Not in so many words,” he admitted.

“Well hold on to her until we get to the transport,” Phil advised him unnecessarily. He turned back to Bendis, feeling the need for a parting remark. “Thanks. We’ll let you know if there’s a problem.”

“Nice doin’ business with you,” Bendis responded pleasantly.

They had to walk the whole length of the market to get back to the entrance and the transport lot, and it seemed like Phil was always glancing back over his shoulder at the other two, who lagged behind. Rachel was not used to walking around a market unrestrained by anything but someone’s hand, he surmised, and he supposed being a bought slave walking past other _unbought_ slaves could be a surreal experience.

He decided he could multitask and pulled out his phone. Mary Beth answered when he called the house. “ _Did you find anyone?_ ” she asked eagerly.

“Yes, we did,” Phil replied, looking back to make sure she was still there. “I’m going to transmit her records and creative output to you now,” he added, doing so.

“ _I see it_ ,” Mary Beth acknowledged. Then, more enthusiastically, “ _What’s she like? What does she like to do?_ ”

Phil made sure he was out of earshot of the woman and spoke in a lower voice. “A little odd,” he admitted. “All her writing is in code, and so far she doesn’t talk at all.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Mary Beth replied, less enthusiastically. “ _How old—oh, she’s thirty-two_ ,” she noted from the records. “ _That’s good, Jason needs more of a contemporary_.” How she knew that, when Jason hadn’t even been completely aware of it, Phil did not know. “ _Does he like her?_ ”

“He picked her out,” Phil informed her, “over my better judgment.” He looked back again and saw Jason carefully guiding her between the stalls, glaring at any salesmen whose overly-aggressive pitches disturbed her. “Yeah, he likes her,” he confirmed, still torn on whether this was a good thing.

Mary Beth had no such doubts. “ _We’ll make sure her room is ready_ ,” she promised with determination. It wouldn’t be perfect, but they would do whatever cleaning and repair work they could before she arrived, and then hopefully Rachel’s own creative energy would patch up the rest. They’d been preparing the chosen room for several days, of course, ever since Phil decided this was the best course of action to alleviate Jason’s loneliness. “ _And I’ll get some basic clothes sent over by electron beam_ ,” she added. They would be cheap quality, but he didn’t think Rachel was picky about such things, and anyway she could pick out better clothes later.

“I’ll try to get you a health scan once we reach the transport,” Phil planned. “Her last one was a while ago, but I think she’s about the same size.” Mary Beth made a noise of acknowledgement. “Okay, we’ll be on the road soon,” Phil concluded. “Everything okay at the house?”

“ _Just fine_ ,” she assured him. “ _We’ll be glad to have Jason back, the sweetheart. Things just seem kind of dull without him. And I can’t wait to meet Rachel, I hope they get along well_.”

Phil smirked slightly, realizing he’d been left off the list but not really minding. He was just glad his staff had taken to this change in their duties so well. “Alright. See you soon.” He hung up and looked back for Jason again, noting they were even farther behind. “Jason!” he prompted.

Jason tried to tug Rachel along a little faster. She didn’t seem to be unwilling, merely uncomfortable, and suddenly she completely stopped. Her face was red under the hand that covered it and she was obviously in distress. “Phil!” Jason summoned. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “Shh, it’s okay, Rachel, it’s okay. What’s wrong? I’ll help you.”

“What’s wrong?” Phil repeated, joining them quickly. He didn’t see anything obvious. “Hold onto her,” he added, and Jason gripped one of the straps of her overalls tightly.

“I think the crowd is just too much for her,” Jason speculated. “She doesn’t like noisy crowds and isn’t used to them.”

Phil was not sure how much of that was made-up or not, but Rachel offered no correction. “Well, we’re almost at the entrance,” he pointed out, though some might have a different definition of ‘almost.’ “Can she keep going?” He didn’t really see any other option but thought maybe presenting it as a question would be better. Frankly he didn’t blame her for not liking the slave market, and was eager to leave it behind himself. He liked the crowded cities, yes, but this place had a totally different, much more negative feel, for obvious reasons he supposed.

Jason looked down at Rachel, assessing her with some invisible measure. “Come on, it’s not much further,” he encouraged. He held on tight to one hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, guiding her between the stalls more quickly than before. Phil fell in step behind them, now the one in danger of being left.

Finally they broke through the entrance, the hubbub of the market quickly fading as they rounded the stone wall. There were other people standing around waiting for their transports, some with freshly-purchased slaves, but they seemed mostly quiet. “See, that’s so much better, isn’t it?” Jason murmured to Rachel as Phil summoned their vehicle. She didn’t exactly lean on Jason; it was more that she allowed herself to be held, while not completely giving in to him yet. “The transport is really nice, there’s a bathroom and a kitchen and a bed—Phil used to travel a lot—“

And he might again one of these days; technically he was on a special assignment, rehabilitating Jason, and although obtaining a companion was a significant milestone Phil could not honestly say Jason was fit to be left unsupervised yet. It wasn’t that he became violent—just the opposite, depressed and withdrawn, less often now than at first. And maybe with Rachel, even _less_ often. And maybe then, Phil would feel like he could turn his attention to another project, for a while anyway. He suspected Jason would live at the country house for a very long time.

The transport arrived, larger than average due to its extra amenities, but with no reduction in speed. Phil knew when to invest in quality. He opened the main door and made sure all the other exits were locked as Jason and Rachel entered; once inside Jason kept a hold of her until Phil had locked the main door and set the route home, securing both functions with a password just in case. Rachel didn’t seem like the sneaky type, but honestly with new slaves you never knew. Phil gave Jason the nod and the other man relaxed somewhat as the transport rose and headed away from the city.

“See, isn’t it nice?” Jason said to Rachel, finally letting her have some space inside the contained vehicle. “The bed folds down from the wall here, and down that hall is the kitchen. Here’s the toilet and the shower,” he added, indicating the two small rooms facing each other across the narrow hall. Rachel nodded and released his hand, ducking into the room with the toilet and shutting the door.

Phil settled into a seat in the main cabin and sent Mary Beth a message, letting her know they were on their way. She replied that Rachel’s data had all arrived safely, and did he want her to try and crack the code of the symbol-writing? Phil smiled faintly; Mary Beth had had to assist him with enough classified material over the years that she’d picked up a trick or two, at least knowing where to turn for questions that most housekeepers didn’t ever encounter.

He was about to tell her yes, then hesitated—unusual for him. Finally, he told her no. Rachel would decrypt it for them, if she ever wanted them to read it. Like Bendis said, it had to be real or it wouldn’t generate creative energy; but there was no rule that anyone else had to be able to _understand_ it, for it to work. So she could keep her writing a secret for now if she wanted.

Rachel emerged from the bathroom and started to enter the main cabin, then stopped and turned abruptly when she realized Phil was there. Then she saw Jason in the kitchen and didn’t want to go _that_ way, either. Instead she sat down on the floor in the narrow hallway and buried her face against her drawn-up knees.

Phil leaned around to look at her. “Jason,” he alerted. He was a little more hands-off himself; Jason was the one who should be dealing with her the most, so she would become comfortable with him. And this was apparently no hardship for the other man, who immediately turned around to attend to her.

“Rachel?” Jason was already crouching at one of the cabinets and he lowered himself fully to the floor, creeping towards her slowly. “Rachel? It’s okay. I know you’re scared, but everything will be alright.” She didn’t respond, but she also didn’t respond _negatively_ , so he sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders.

“You’ll like our house,” he murmured to her. “It’s out in the country, it’s very quiet. There’s trees and meadows and gardens—do you like to garden? And inside there’s a library with _real_ books—“ She looked up slightly. “You like real books, don’t you?” he remembered. “Well, so does Phil. Oh, are you hungry?” he added when she glanced at the protein bar in his hand. “Here.” He gave it to her, hoping the bite he’d already taken from it would convince her it was safe. She nibbled on it hesitantly.

“And there’s an indoor pool,” Jason went on, “and an atrium with some indoor plants. And there’s a music room—you like music, don’t you? _I_ like music. I like to sing and play music. And I can record it, too, Phil got the equipment for that. And there’s an art studio with paints and paper and clay and all kinds of craft stuff. And a theatre, like with a stage. I know, it’s a really big house,” he acknowledged, sensing some skepticism from her.

“It’s really old. And, well, some parts of it aren’t in very good repair,” Jason added in a low voice, not wanting to offend Phil. “There’s only a small staff—Mary Beth the housekeeper, and Cece who helps her, and then Dacre the groundskeeper and his assistant Pace. That’s it. They’re all really nice. And, well, my creative energy—“ He still had trouble accepting that he could be such a force for good, doing just the simple things he hadn’t known he enjoyed. “—well, the house and grounds get _better_ ,” he tried to explain.

Of course, she was probably well aware of the power of creative energy, though at the moment she merely poked at the protein bar without responding to him. “And I guess you’ll help make it better, too,” Jason finished with a sigh.

Rachel seemed calmer, anyway, he thought, a little more relaxed. “You want to lay on the bed?” he asked her. “The trip home is a couple of hours… Well, there’s just more comfortable places to spend it than sitting here on the floor.”

Nothing. He eased his arm out from behind her and stood. “Okay, I’ll go pull the bed down.” She stayed on the floor and he went into the main cabin. “I’m getting the bed out,” he informed Phil, who got up and moved to a seat that would be less in the way.

Phil took the opportunity to glance back down the hall at Rachel. “Is she okay?” he asked Jason quietly.

“Yeah,” he insisted. “She’s just nervous about going someplace new.” The bed slowly unfolded from the wall, taking up most of the room in the main cabin, and he pulled a couple of pillows and a blanket from a cabinet.

“Hey, see if you can get her to do a health scan, before she takes a nap,” Phil suggested to him. “Do you want me to ask her?” He felt a little awkward talking about Rachel as though she weren’t there.

“No, I’ll do it,” Jason assured him. He took a couple of steps back down the hall to where Rachel still sat. “Rachel.” She looked up at him. “Here, let me help you up,” he offered, pulling her to her feet. “I want to show you something, just right here.”

Jason slid aside the door to the shower stall and both he and Rachel leaned in to examine it. “See, it’s for showers,” he pointed out. “And, it also does health scans. I know, pretty fancy. Would you mind getting in there and doing a health scan?” No acknowledgement. “I mean, you have to take off all your clothes, you know,” he reminded her. “You can’t take anything in there with you, it will mess up the scan.”

Rachel straightened back up and looked at him, which was something. “I’ll just wait out here with Phil, okay?” he went on, backing into the main cabin. “You can take a shower, too, if you want.” He slid shut the door that separated the main cabin from the hall, giving her some privacy.

“Is she going to do it?” Phil asked. He had his feet propped up on the edge of the bed—there wasn’t much leg room otherwise—and was studying his tablet for the news he’d missed while at the market.

Jason kicked off his boots and flopped down on the bed. “Yeah,” he answered, as if it should be obvious. Phil had not thought it obvious from anything he’d overheard, but he shrugged and kept his eye on the tablet in case the health scan results started to come in.

“I’m telling Mary Beth to put some food in her room,” Phil said after a moment. “I think we should show her the room first, and then see if she wants to do anything else right away.”

Jason frowned. “It won’t even be dinnertime when we get home,” he pointed out. “I want to show her around the house.”

Phil gave him a look. “She might just want to stay in her room for a while to get used to it,” he warned, trying to prepare the other man. “You’re the one who said she’s nervous about going to a new place.”

Jason frowned again and said nothing, but clearly he found this logic suspect. Jason was used to walking into new places and acting like he belonged there; then, over time, he might indeed become comfortable. Not everyone worked that way, though, and Phil knew Jason would not forget the difficulties he _had_ had in adjusting to his new situation. He was just eager to have Rachel’s companionship _now_. But Phil feared she might take a while to warm up to the place.

Phil’s tablet beeped. “Looks like she’s doing the health scan,” he noted with some surprise. Obviously she understood what was asked of her perfectly well.

“Told you,” Jason replied to the doubt in his tone. Then he sat up and made to snatch the tablet away from Phile. “Don’t _watch_ ,” he admonished primly.

Phil rolled his eyes and kept the tablet away from him, noting that Jason quickly pulled one off the wall to see for himself. There weren’t _images_ , of course, nothing that really ought to make Jason concerned about Rachel’s modesty; but the level of detail a health scan revealed could be quite intimate, in a sense. It confirmed the presence of Rachel’s implant, for example, and the fact that she’d never been pregnant.

“I don’t want you to get ahead of yourself,” Phil began delicately, “but an implant removal can take a while to recover from. So if you guys want to have kids—well, you should think about it in advance.” Jason was silent. “I know that’s very premature,” Phil added quickly. He couldn’t imagine Jason having thought much about kids himself, and he had no idea about Rachel—much less the two of them together. Phil was about to say something else on the subject, then decided it wasn’t necessary and stayed silent.

“She’s had some injuries,” Jason with disapproval, as the data rolled in. “Broken arm, broken ankle… broken ribs.”

“All from different times,” Phil added. “And all older than five years. That was back when she was at the industrial place. Looks like they’ve all healed up fine,” he finished in a more upbeat tone.

“Have you ever been to an industrial creative energy plant, Phil?” Jason asked curiously.

“Yes.”

“What’s it like? I mean, how would she get broken bones there?”

Phil hesitated, never sure what was going to upset Jason and what he would be blasé about. “Well, the industrial plants are very large, sometimes thousands of people,” he began, “and not a lot of supervision. And not a lot of room, either, usually just the bare minimum legally required. So it would be easy to trip over someone, or bump into them.”

“And break your arm?” Jason asked skeptically.

“Sometimes the other people aren’t very nice,” Phil added delicately. “They’re already prisoners, what have they got to lose?”

“But they have to be happy, to be creative, don’t they?” Jason checked, a bit desperately.

“If they don’t produce they get sold,” Phil pointed out. “So maybe that’s motivation enough.”

Jason didn’t respond and Phil tried to put the memories he’d been drawing on aside. The places he’d seen were by no means terrible; he could imagine someone being… content there, especially if they’d never really known anything else. But in any large group there were bad elements one could run afoul of. Or maybe Rachel was actually just clumsy; the gym facilities he’d witnessed were usually overcrowded with poorly-maintained equipment, and a certain percentage of injuries was considered acceptable.

Phil was not surprised people frequently came out of industrial places a little strange, he decided.

“Good, she did the blood draw,” he noted, trying to sound less surprised this time, as genetic data came streaming across his tablet.

“Creative energy markers,” Jason noted idly, as the sequenced bases were matched to known genes and sorted. Of course they knew she was a Creative, Phil’s meter had gone off as they approached her; it was hard to fake being a true Creative though of course people tried.

As advertised Rachel seemed quite healthy, no red flags about blood pressure or arthritis or degenerative diseases popping up. Creatives tended to want to focus on their art, and if that largely involved sitting, they could become very sedentary if not encouraged to be active. “You’ll be in charge of making sure she gets exercise every day,” Phil reminded Jason. “And eats properly.”

Jason rolled his eyes over to him briefly as though this should be obvious. They had discussed who would have what responsibility thoroughly before looking for a companion, and Phil was of the opinion most tasks should fall to Jason. Technically Phil owned them both, of course, but Jason was very disciplined and largely autonomous at this point. Rachel, Phil hoped, would eventually be that way herself, but it would take time to get used to her new surroundings and she would need someone to keep an eye on her. Of course the whole staff would be well aware of her presence, but they were to refer as many issues as possible to Jason. Eventually Rachel would get the hang of things, Phil assumed.

“There’s definitely a pattern to these symbols,” Jason mused, and Phil glanced up to see he’d moved on from the health scan to one of Rachel’s stories. “This triangle with a circle in it always appears before the square with the X in it, though sometimes the square appears without it.”

“She wrote it in code because she didn’t want anyone else to read it,” Phil pointed out to him. This was a leap but only a small one.

“I won’t use any algorithms on it,” Jason promised. “But I can _look_ at it. Does trying to figure out the code generate creative energy?”

Phil switched to the meter on his tablet, which showed a slight elevation in energy from Jason. “Apparently so,” he agreed. Jason was very resourceful, an excellent problem-solver, though so far not many puzzles had really captured his interest. Maybe trying to solve Rachel’s code by hand would be a productive pastime for him. Though if the computer programs Bendis had run couldn’t figure it out, Phil wasn’t sure how much progress Jason could make. He supposed that wasn’t the point, though.

“Yeah, she really likes sci-fi and fantasy TV shows,” Jason commented randomly, and Phil switched to the directory of music videos Rachel had made. There were more than he was expecting, from Bendis’s remarks, but then again her output of coded writing dwarfed the videos anyway. “ _Mermaid Cove, Vampire High, Moonbeams, Circle of Artemis, The Familiars_ —I suppose you don’t watch any of those shows?” Jason asked teasingly.

“I’ve never even _heard_ of those shows,” Phil admitted. From the looks of the videos they were aimed at the teen/young adult set and involved characters with superpowers or who turned into supernatural creatures. Phil liked to read. The video medium didn’t hold much interest for him.

“Maybe I’ll start watching them,” Jason murmured to himself, watching one of the videos. He seemed to be serious. Love triangles and existential angst didn’t really seem like Jason’s thing to Phil, but whatever; he wanted to relate to Rachel and her interests. Such shows at least had a certain imagination about them, Phil supposed, more than the usual trite sitcom or soap opera set in a workplace or family.

But then again Phil didn’t have to admire or even experience anyone’s creative output for it to count; although he was glad to see Jason happily create music, for example, Phil preferred a little smooth jazz, maybe some classical as in Mozart and Beethoven, while Jason liked more theatrical rock songs. Which Rachel made liberal use of in her videos, apparently, so that was something else they could enjoy in common.

They both turned as they heard some sounds on the other side of the door, movement outside the shower stall. Rachel did not appear, however, and after a moment the sounds silenced. Jason rolled off the bed. “I’ll go check on her.”

He opened the door and didn’t see Rachel anywhere. There weren’t many places to be out of sight on the transport, especially as she wasn’t in the shower or toilet stalls. Cautiously Jason went through to the kitchen, intellectually knowing that she couldn’t have left the transport. It didn’t take long for him to zero in on the small table and benches in one corner and he crouched down slowly, seeing Rachel huddled in the tight, dim space. She had redressed in her plain overalls and shirt and clutched her bag to her tightly.

“Rachel?” he questioned softly. “Are you okay? Can you come out of there? Thank you for doing the health scan, that helped us a lot.” She blinked at him hesitantly. “You’ve done health scans before, right? They can be kind of scary at first. Let me see your hand. Does your finger hurt from the blood draw?”

He held out his hand and slowly Rachel put her own in it. Jason carefully turned it over and examined the finger that had been pricked, which bore a tiny red mark. “That doesn’t look too bad,” he asserted. “It will heal right up.”

Having gotten a hold of her hand he had no intention of letting go, and he carefully cradled her fingers. “Will you come out and sit on the bed?” he coaxed. “There’s still over an hour and a half to go. I don’t think you’ll be very comfortable here.” Indeed, she didn’t even look comfortable at the moment, wedged in among the furniture legs.

After a moment of thought Rachel agreed and started to work her way out. It was not an elegant process and at one point she overbalanced and landed awkwardly on the floor. Jason winced. “Are you okay?” Rachel sat up immediately and dug into her bag, pulling out her old tablet. For a moment Jason wondered if he’d totally lost her attention, and now she was going to sit there on the floor and write; but no, she just wanted to make sure it hadn’t broken, seeming satisfied when it promptly lit up.

“I bet we could get you a newer version of that,” Jason suggested, helping her up. She didn’t respond and he imagined her thinking that the old one worked perfectly well, no need to change. “Okay, then.” Taking her hand he led her back down the short hallway to the main room, which was mostly full of bed. Jason curled up on it by way of example and patted the space next to him.

Rachel looked at his stocking feet, then at Phil’s dress shoes resting on the edge of the bed. Phil was not a socks-only kind of guy. Then she looked back at Jason questioningly.

“You can take your shoes off if you want,” he invited, not sure which way she leaned. Rachel sat down on the edge of a seat and removed her shoes—cheap sneakers—and tucked them proprietarily into her bag. Then she scooted onto the bed—not necessarily near Jason, but the progress thrilled him. Phil watched surreptitiously from over the edge of his tablet.

“Here, here’s a blanket,” Jason encouraged, draping the cloth around her shoulders. “Do you want to lie down?” She did not, preferring to lean back against the wall with her knees drawn up, securing the blanket around herself. “Do you want to listen to music?” Jason suggested instead. This seemed to generate a glimmer of interest. “Do you have earbuds? Here, I’ve got some.” He hurriedly opened a small compartment and pulled out two pairs. “Here, you can wear these, and I’ll wear these—can I plug them into your tablet? Thank you. What’s your favorite song? You play some of your favorites, then I’ll show you some of mine.”

This seemed to be a clever plan on Jason’s part, as it seemed to relax Rachel somewhat and encouraged her to interact with him, even if she didn’t actually communicate in words. Phil stayed out of it, trying to be unobtrusive and mind his own business. Mary Beth had gotten Rachel’s room set up with some food and clothes; Phil planned to show it to Rachel first, before she even met the staff, and see how she felt before proceeding.

She’d only lived three different places in her life—the breeding center, the industrial plant, and Bendis’s boutique farm—and of course hadn’t traveled much; change might be difficult for her, and he wanted to make things as smooth as possible. Plus, she likely wouldn’t start being creative again until she felt comfortable. He sent an additional note to Mary Beth asking her to put some books in Rachel’s room as well.

“What’s wrong, Rachel?” Jason asked in concern, and Phil looked up suddenly. She was staring out the window at the blurred scenery, a faraway look in her eye. “Are you sad?” Jason wanted to know. “Don’t be sad. Let’s not listen to _sad_ songs.” He reached over and tapped the tablet. Rachel glanced at him briefly and pulled the earbuds from her ears, then continued brooding silently.

Phil could see this distressed Jason. “Are you worried about where we’re going? Do you want me to tell you about it again?” No response. “It’s out in the country, it’s very quiet,” he repeated. “You’ll have your own room, with your own bathroom, and, um, a closet, and…” Rachel did not appear much enticed by this. “What’s your favorite food?” Jason persisted, a bit desperately. “Mary Beth can make it for you.” Phil feared he was about to start guessing every food he could think of, hoping to elicit some response from her.

But then Rachel abruptly lay down on the bed, curling up with the blanket tight around her. Jason immediately lay down next to her, his back to Phil. When he reached out a tentative hand to her, she pulled the blanket over her head. He started to reach again anyway and Phil made a little noise of warning to stop him. Rachel was Jason’s to deal with, true, but Phil felt Jason just needed to give her a little space. When Jason turned to look at him, Phil indicated the seat beside him and the other man pulled himself from the bed with great reluctance.

“Just let her rest,” Phil murmured to him. Jason was not happy with this advice. But he stayed in the seat, and browsed through some of Rachel’s more accessible creative works to pass the time. Meanwhile, Phil made sure Mary Beth was purchasing all the TV shows Rachel seemed to favor—they certainly didn’t own any of them already. Cece was the closest to their target demographic but she was more the outdoorsy type.

“Have you watched these?” Jason asked of Phil some time later, indicating Rachel’s music videos. He had not, really. “They’re so good,” he enthused, seemingly without even remembering Rachel was in the room. “I’m not entirely certain who this Rowan and Sawyer are, but I’m definitely rooting for them. From _Circle of Artemis_?” he clarified at Phil’s look of confusion. “Rowan seems to have supernatural powers, while Sawyer is an ordinary mortal—Not your thing, huh?” he surmised.

“I’m glad you like it,” Phil replied mildly. He was reading an electronic version of a book—something he _only_ did when traveling—and keeping an eye on his messages in case Mary Beth had any questions. “Perhaps you can start watching the actual show.”

“Oh, you’re buying it? That’s nice,” Jason told him. “Yeah, all the characters are about half my age, but there’s a certain epic quality to their adventures that I like. Some of them are the offspring of the Greek gods, but in the modern world, you see,” he added with a slight smirk.

“Oh? Really?” Phil enjoyed classical mythology and the description intrigued him the tiniest bit. Maybe not enough to actually _watch_ the show, though. Then he noticed Rachel peeping from behind the blanket and tried to discreetly let Jason know, before going back to his story.

Immediately Jason’s intense gaze zeroed in on her. “Hi, Rachel,” he began, staying in his seat. “Are you feeling better? I really like your videos. Phil’s going to get us all the shows, maybe we can watch them together. Can I show you my favorite video?” Rachel did not object and he leaned forward to balance on the edge of the mattress.

“It’s this one here,” he said, turning his tablet around to display the video to her. She smiled a little when she saw it, and he smiled too. “Yeah, it’s a funny one,” he agreed. “It’s probably even funnier when you know the backstory for the characters.”

He turned the tablet back around to watch the last few seconds. “I never tried to make a music video before,” he mused. “But I’ve been working with this video-editing software a lot lately, piecing together stuff I’ve filmed.” Rachel gave him a curious look. “Oh, like me acting out a play or something,” he shrugged modestly. “I try to do all the parts, then splice it together. I bet you could help me a lot with the editing,” he suggested. “I’ve just started learning how to do it and it’s _hard_.” She nodded sagely.

“But you’ve got lots of experience with it. Maybe we could film me playing some music sometime, too,” he went on eagerly. “I mean, I’ve got lots of video of that already, but it’s rather boring, because the camera doesn’t move around at all.” Rachel shrugged a little, seeming to indicate willingness to explore the idea. “Good,” Jason told her happily.

He paused for a long moment, just staring at her quietly. “Would you like to see pictures of the house and the nearby village?” he offered finally. She didn’t object so he keyed them up on his tablet and moved carefully over to sit by her. “Here’s the house,” he said. “Yeah, I said it was big. This part here is what we use mostly, but there’s lots of other rooms. See, here’s the atrium and the pool. And over here you can see the tennis and basketball courts. You want to look closer?”

He handed her the tablet and let her flip through the photos at her own pace, leaning over to see which ones she lingered on. “Do you like sports?” he wanted to know. “It’s important to be active… If you want some exercise equipment maybe we can get some.”

Phil glanced up at him warningly, but fortunately Rachel didn’t seem much interested in that idea. Jason managed to get by with two sport courts, a pool, and room to jog; he figured Rachel could do the same, at least for a while. He thought there might be suitable space in the basement for a home gym someday, but frankly he was afraid to go down there right now, not sure what kind of junk and ruin awaited them.

“This is the village near the house,” Jason explained as she reached a new series of photos. “Well, it’s about four miles away. They have some little shops and restaurants, and a weekly farmers’ market with fresh produce. I’ve only been there a couple times,” he added, and Phil couldn’t quite interpret his tone—Jason always seemed reluctant to leave the peaceful isolation of the house, even to visit the tiny village. But maybe he should be pressed a bit more?

“Oh, that’s just—that’s the vegetable garden at the house,” Jason narrated, suddenly sounding slightly uncomfortable. Rachel gave him a steady look. “I took this photo,” he explained self-consciously. “I’m not really—well, I tried photography and it’s okay, but it seems like there’s a lot to learn and I take a _lot_ of photos just to get a few I like.”

Rachel paged through them with interest anyway and paused to gaze thoughtfully on one for a while. Then she gestured between her tablet and his. Jason’s face lit up. “You want a copy of this? Here, I’ll transfer it for you. Of course once we get home we can connect your tablet to our network, and you can see all the creative stuff I’ve done, well, whatever’s digital. I like music, you know,” he went on, handing her tablet back to her. “I sing and I play a couple instruments.” Rachel nodded readily at this in appreciation.

“Do you like to do any crafts?” he wanted to know. “We have a really nice art room—well, I told you about it already. But you can try out whatever you want there—“ Suddenly Rachel looked very distant again, and after a moment she lay back down and rolled over to face the wall.

This time Jason got up immediately, but Phil could see he wasn’t happy about it. He stood with a sigh and followed Jason to the kitchen, shutting the door to the main cabin for whatever good that would do.

“What do you think she’s upset about?” Jason hissed to Phil.

The older man blinked at him. “She writes novels in a code a computer can’t crack,” he pointed out. “And she doesn’t talk. Obviously clear communication is not high on her agenda.”

This was not what Jason wanted to hear. “Did I say something wrong?” he persisted.

“No, I think you’re doing really well with her,” Phil told him sincerely, “especially giving her a bit more space.” It occurred to him that Jason had little experience in trying to make friends, real ones at least; even among the staff at the house he hadn’t had to work this hard, because they were all invested in getting to know _him_ as well. And they talked back. “She probably just gets to thinking about something that makes her nervous,” Phil predicted. “You know, you can _tell_ her things all you want, but she probably won’t really understand until she sees it for herself.”

“I just think she’ll really like it,” Jason said, a bit helplessly.

“I know.”

“It will be so much better than the places she’s been,” he went on. “Even this last place—it was the best so far, but still too many people, and not enough to do.”

Phil raised an eyebrow at him. “And she told you that…?”

“I inferred it.”

“Ah.” Phil did not conceal his skepticism. “Well, just try to let her take things at her own pace,” he said once again. “Don’t overwhelm her.”

Jason sighed heavily, then squared his shoulders and nodded. Phil was a little sad to see it; Jason had spent so much of his life being detached from other people and pretending it didn’t bother him, and now, just when he was beginning to feel allowed to make friends—Well, one could go too far in the other direction, Phil reasoned. He’d made progress on the forward motion, but now he needed to learn balance.

Phil patted his shoulder. “Hey, how about we play a couple rounds of Panko before we get home?” he suggested. Maybe _he’d_ been hurting the situation by neglecting Jason himself.

As if to support that idea the other man’s eyes lit up. “Really? Okay,” he agreed quickly, before Phil could take it back. Phil liked games, but there always seemed to be something else he _ought_ to be doing instead, so this was a rare offer.

“Let’s go back in the other room,” he added. “Maybe Rachel will be interested by it.”

“I hadn’t even thought about playing games with her,” Jason admitted as they went back to their seats. “I hope she likes them.”

Rachel was still curled up under the blanket with her back to them as Jason and Phil tried to face each other in the cramped space. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but it made things more fun—Panko was all about strategy and creative problem-solving, and you could gain valuable clues about your opponent’s ideas from their body language. Jason was quite good at it and no one at the house except Phil presented much of a challenge to him, or was even interested in repeatedly trying for as long as Jason wanted. He didn’t like to play against anonymous strangers across the network, so most of the time he just played against the computer, which had a vast resource of ideas to draw on, but could also be predictable.

“Mm-hmm,” Jason noted as he saw Phil’s solution to one puzzle. This counted as a compliment, but Phil knew the move had tipped his hand about a larger strategy and Jason saw that, too.

Jason executed a particularly clever method of overcoming the next obstacle, which in hindsight was rather obvious (wasn’t everything), and Phil drew in a breath, then sighed as his mind whirled through alternatives. Panko was in many respects similar to what both of them had done in their regular jobs, only with considerably less loss of life and property destruction—but no less laser-intense focus and ironclad determination, when they really got into it.

Therefore it took Jason a while to realize that Rachel had rolled back over and was watching them closely. “Sorry,” he told her, eyes flickering away from the game briefly. He was used to problem-solving with distractions. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.” She seemed curious about what they were doing, and Phil smirked at Jason’s moral dilemma—explain what was going on to Rachel and lose valuable concentration, or focus on the game but neglect her? Maybe Phil would actually have the edge this time.

“It’s a game… called Panko,” Jason tried to tell her, splitting his attention dangerously. “Problem solving and…” He growled slightly, which he tended to do with especially tricky scenarios. Phil risked glancing at Rachel; she didn’t seem put off by the noise.

“Maybe she can sense your creative energy,” he suggested. He had a comfortable lead for the moment and could afford to wonder about this.

“Does that happen?” Jason responded distractedly, shaking the tablet to mimic his on-screen actions (which actually didn’t help at all).

“What?” Phil asked a moment later. His comfortable lead had abruptly disappeared as Jason unexpectedly chose the game over Rachel, but he thought he vaguely remembered someone asking a question. Jason just grunted in return, so it must not have been important.

A moment later Jason let out a victory whoop as he hit the winning score before Phil did. Not an unusual occurrence, really. Phil sighed and relaxed, always amazed at how tense he became right at the end. “Good game,” he told Jason graciously.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have thought of that thing with the barrel,” Jason complimented in return. “I’ll remember that one.” Sometimes Phil felt like the more they played, the worse he would do, because anything original he came up with, Jason was sure to memorize.

Finally Jason turned back to Rachel, who was watching them quietly. “Sorry,” he apologized again. “Do you want to learn the game? Do you like to play games?” Rachel held out her hand and he gave her the tablet, presumably so she could peruse the instructions. After a moment she handed it back. “Not interested, huh?” Jason surmised, with some disappointment. Rachel shrugged a little and looked away. “Maybe later,” Jason interpreted. “Well, it’s on the house network, you can play against the computer first if you want.”

Rachel drew her knees back up under her chin and played idly with a thread from her sock—not happy body language, Phil judged, but she hadn’t turned away from them yet. She tried gazing out the windows but it was blurring by too fast; the panes were specially polarized to make the view even more opaque, to avoid giving people motion sickness.

“We’ll be home soon,” Jason noted in an upbeat tone. “I hope we’ll have supper soon… What’s your favorite food?” he asked Rachel. “Mary Beth and Cece can make it for you.” Unsurprisingly she didn’t respond.

They were all silent for a few more minutes. Then Phil felt the transport start to change speed, slowing down as it neared the perimeter of the property. “The bed—“ he reminded Jason, who had already stood up.

“I have to put the bed away now, Rachel,” Jason warned her, and she quickly scrambled off it, hiding in the hallway and putting her shoes back on. She folded the blanket up neatly but did not offer to return it, Phil noticed.


End file.
